ccxci. the better wizard
The blinding flash of poisonous green raced toward Harriet, and she had only enough time to tense her body, recoiling—.
The spell flickered over her being—then went out.
Harriet gasped and faltered, waiting for something, though she didn't know what. Hermione cried out, but both the light and her shocked exclamation petered to nothing, a dancing echo chasing itself into the empty halls of the Ministry. Harriet didn't dare move for fear she'd suddenly drop dead.
What in Merlin's name just happened? I'm—alive? What?
Gaunt stared. If he knew what had just happened, he wasn't telling. He raised his chin, and his fingers tightened around his wand's handle.
"You're a persistent thing, aren't you?"
The comment was enough to shake Harriet from her stupor, and she adopted a dueling stance, stepping away from the poor dead wizard on the floor. "So this is where you slithered off to," she snarked, covering her shaking nerves. "You left the Department so you wouldn't be caught down there."
"Astute, Potter. Is this the part where Slytherin would usually part your head and sing your adulations?"
Harriet laughed—or at least tried to. She sounded more like Elara during one of her asthma attacks. "You got them all pinched, you know. Voldemort's best lieutenants, caught by the Unspeakables."
Gaunt barely blinked. "The cost of progress is shouldered by the many," he said. "And it matters little, so long as I succeed. You will be handing the prophecy to me. Now."
Harriet fired a spell, her strongest Blasting Curse, and as Gaunt swatted it aside, she Transfigured the floor beneath him. Hermione attempted to disarm him—but he managed to deflect that and flatten the ground in a single swipe. He countered, and a great flaming whip came sailing at their heads.
"Protego Flammae!"
Harriet's water-based Shield popped into being and caught the whip, dousing them in steam. She had just enough time to hit Hermione behind the knees and throw them both to the floor to avoid a second Killing Curse barreling in their direction, blazing through the mist.
For a split second, Harriet remained on the floor, her heart pounding, bones aching. Pain in her scar nearly blinded her with tears—but she rolled up again.
Get up, get up—keep going. Never give in—.
"Clear the air," she ordered Hermione. "And Shield over your head. Protego Horribilis!"
Gaunt's following curse collided with her Shield—and crawled over the edges, devouring it. Harriet leapt out of the way before a second curse could clip her, and she tossed a hasty Reducto toward the overlooking offices. It struck their windows, and glass rained down.
"Oppugno!"
The heavy shards rocketed toward Gaunt. Harriet used the distraction to create another floating sword from a bit of broken rubble—and then watched in dismay as Gaunt merely waved a hand, and the glass turned to sand and parted around him.
Smirking, he flicked his wand, Harriet's eyes following the motion, cataloging—.
She dashed for the fountain.
"Harriet—?!" Hermione cried.
Fire, he's using the fire rune—!
She stabbed her wand into the fountain where they'd found Barty Crouch dead, and she gasped, "Serpensfiet Unda Maxima!"
The water coalesced into a great, watery serpent—and not a moment later, Gaunt conjured a snake comprised of fire, its body as large as a basilisk's, spiraling from the end of his wand.
"Surgit!"
She'd never done this before, but Harriet flung her impromptu water golem straight at the snarling snake of fire—and they collided, boiling steam issuing into the air like a geyser. Blinded, Harriet blocked the white cloud from hitting her and Hermione, and jabbed her fingers in Gaunt's direction. She fired the floating sword like an arrow. She heard the clack! of it being deflected.
Hermione again cleared the air. Panting, Harriet scanned the Atrium, searching for Gaunt. Fires spotted the hall, loose parchment smoldering, the edge of Harriet's robes smoking. She found the Minister exactly where he'd been before, untouched by a single spell. His narrowed eyes mocked her efforts.
Nothing? Harriet thought, despair rising. Nothing touched him. Not a single drop of water, not a single spark. He hadn't been trying. Harriet's entire body quivered with exhaustion, and Gaunt held himself like an unbothered king looking down upon a dirty pauper.
"Enough of this farce," he drawled, raising his wand—.
Gaunt didn't have a chance to utter a spell before agony sliced into Harriet's neck, and she collapsed onto the floor, shrieking.
"Harriet—!" Hermione dashed to her side and grabbed her by the shoulders, searching for the source of her pain. "Oh God, Harriet, what's happening?!"
Every muscle in her body seized as if struck with the Cruciatus—but this was something much, much worse. The pain in her scar made it feel as if the skin had burst open, and something heinous was crawling free of the flesh. Harriet clung to Hermione's arm with her free hand. She pointed her wand toward Gaunt.
The Minister's brow furrowed, and then he turned around.
There, bold as could be, stood a tall, pale figure in black robes, crimson eyes flashing in the burning embers of Gaunt's spellcraft. Lord Voldemort had arrived at the Ministry.
"You are not meant to be here," Gaunt hissed as Voldemort approached, his steps slow and unhurried.
"I grew tired of waiting," was his sibilant response, and his gaze cut through Harriet like a knife, the sight of his pale, monstrous face startling a whimper from Hermione. Gritting her teeth, Harriet dragged herself to her feet.
"The time for heroic platitudes is at an end, child," Voldemort said, voice soft where Gaunt's had been annoyed and grating. "Release the prophecy to us, Harriet Potter. Do this, and there's no need for you to die this day. You may face Lord Voldemort another day."
Harriet didn't believe that shite for a second. Neither she nor Hermione would be leaving this place alive—but he wouldn't get what he came for.
With great satisfaction, she lifted her nose in the air, and she told the awful bastard, "There isn't a prophecy. Not anymore. It's gone—dusted." Harriet watched as Voldemort's face fell, and his eyes glimmered with growing temper. "Guess the only person who knows it now is Dumbledore. Good luck getting him to talk."
Voldemort's pale, bloodless mouth twisted, revealing teeth better suited to the mouth of a serpent. "You will regret this, Potter," he said. "Not even Dumbledore is infallible."
"He's a better wizard than you'll ever be!" Harriet retorted, quaking with anxiety, waiting for the inevitable. "Long after you're forgotten, people will know the name Albus Dumbledore—!"
Voldemort let out a furious shout, and his magic blasted out.
"Protego Tria!"
Harriet mustered the strongest Shield she could over herself and Hermione. When Voldemort's wordless spell collided with it, her trainers slid on the floor. She collided with Hermione, and the back of her legs struck the fountain's side. The pressure of the spell bore down upon them with all the force of a hurricane. Stones cracked, bricks shattered, frigid water gushing over their feet. The golden statues in the fountain's middle crumbled to pieces.
Harriet poured every bit of herself into the Shield as her arms trembled, sweat dripping along her temples. The lenses of her spectacles cracked under the pressure. She couldn't hold it forever—and yet the spell persisted. She didn't know what to do. All of her training, all of her efforts—and nothing had prepared her for this. The sheer power of it blinded her, singed the skin of her hands. What could she do? She had to figure something out—.
Gaunt attacked.
His curse slipped through Voldemort's and right through Harriet's buckling Shield. The Dark Lord's spell ended—and Harriet dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Next to her, Hermione did the same.
Shocked, Harriet blinked and found herself sitting in the fountain's rubble, staring at her own hands. Her fingers still clung to her wand through sheer force of will. Heat blossomed across her front, and she could do nothing but watch as crimson bled through the dusty fabric of her robes.
That's…my blood. I'm…bleeding—.
Next to her, Hermione didn't move, face down on the floor.
A wet gasp slid from her mouth as a hand closed around her throat, and Gaunt lifted her from the bloodied water. The busted fountain pipe still gushed, and the mess spread across the Atrium, strains of Harriet and Hermione's blood swirling around Gaunt's feet. Harriet choked as the hand squeezed. Her vision came into focus, and she stared into Gaunt's hateful eyes. His breath smelled of death.
"So much frustration for such a weak, worthless thing," he said. His left hand touched her cheek, swiped over her gaping mouth. "You're nothing, Harriet Potter. I will ensure even your name disappears from history."
Harriet choked, grasping at his wrist.
His fingertips drilled into her neck, deeper and deeper into her throat, his golden ring glancing across her blazing scar—.
Something pulled—.
And Harriet found herself looking into her own face from Gaunt's perspective.
As quick as it had come, the vision faded, and Harriet struggled once more to breathe. A look of confusion crossed Gaunt's face, and he turned to look at an equally confused Voldemort.
Harriet's fingers curled around her wand, tightening. She clenched her teeth, air rattling in her chest, and hissed—.
"Sectumsempra!"
Gaunt shrieked as the curse slashed across his hand, and something broke from his heavy ring. Harriet succeeded in forcing him to release her, though, as he yanked his arm back. She saw only the briefest glimpse of dark, sluggish blood oozing from the deep wound. Harriet swayed on her feet but remained upright.
"You will regret that, you—."
Whatever insult he meant to spew was cut short as a burst of pressure shoved him back from Harriet. The shift in the air forced Harriet to blink, and when she opened them again, Albus Dumbledore stood next to her.
Harriet could have fainted dead away in relief.
"Professor," she croaked.
He spared her a single, reassuring look before his expression hardened, and he addressed Voldemort. "It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom," said Dumbledore. "And foolish to involve my students in your schemes."
After an initial moment of surprise, Voldemort quickly recovered, scoffing at Dumbledore's pronouncement. "You overestimate yourself, Dumbledore," he belittled. "It was a mistake for you to come here. A mistake for you to face me. You're weak. A one-armed wreck of a wizard."
Dumbledore shrugged. "Maybe. I do find it has its benefits. I only ever have to buy one glove, but tying my shoes has become a bit of a challenge."
"Yes, yes, keep your humor until the end, old man," Voldemort seethed, bony, spider-like fingers moving along his wand. It made Harriet feel sick to watch his hands move. "But do you truly think you stand a chance against me? You're going to die here!"
"Perhaps not," Dumbledore replied. He kept his tone stern, but calm, as if conversing with a colleague he didn't particularly care for but took great pains to be polite with. "But patience has never been your virtue, Tom, and because of that, you fail to see the most vital things."
Gaunt looked wary, casting his gaze around the Atrium—but Voldemort's lip only curled. "Like what?" he demanded in a high, cold voice.
Dumbledore smiled—a brief, mocking thing that didn't suit his face well, but it seemed to gall Voldemort. "I don't have to confront you at all."
A series of pops rang through the Atrium, and Voldemort's eyes widened.
Aurors Apparated into the hall—Aurors, hit wizards, other Ministry employees who Apparated or ducked out of the arrayed Floos. They froze upon seeing the scene that awaited them. Somebody screamed. Another yelled, "That's—that's him! That's You-Know-Who!"
They all saw Lord Voldemort in the flesh. Lord Voldemort, standing with the Minister for Magic, their wands pointed at bloodied school children and the great Albus Dumbledore.
And Dumbledore could only smile.
Voldemort snarled in rage. He and Gaunt vanished with a crack.
A/N: Just to reiterate, it's only been about an hour? Maybe an hour and half? I had some comments where readers thought it should be dawn by now, and no xD Not for several hours yet.
That one line, "It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom," was from canon OotP.
